


Warmth in Reserve

by yuuago



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blindfolds, Hetalia Kink Meme, Light Bondage, M/M, Minor Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 15:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15688014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuuago/pseuds/yuuago
Summary: Norway has his reasons for inviting Germany to his home now and then, but Germany might have reasons other than that for agreeing to the visit.





	Warmth in Reserve

**Author's Note:**

> Upload of an old kink meme fic. :) Prompt was as follows:  
>  _I would love to see Norway with a blindfold on and earplugs in, possibly in some kind of bondage as well, having to rely entirely on someone else to care for him._[*](https://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/78769.html?thread=512761777#cmt512761777)

The flowers always confuse him.

Norway dips his head and breathes in deeply the scent. Roses. Cups one of them in his hands, sliding his thumb against a soft petal. Why always roses? Red ones. He does like red, and they do smell nice, but he isn't sure it's appropriate, exactly, not for the kind of relationship that theirs is.

He brought up the subject once. They hadn't been doing it for long when he'd said it. Five times, it might have been. Enough to drive him to ask about it.

"You don't have to go bringin' me flowers, you know," he had said, even as he unwrapped the paper and trimmed the stems.

"Would you prefer if I didn't?"

He'd looked at Germany then, whose expression was a mix of things, somewhere between a kicked puppy and an embarrassed teenager. So he said, after a second, "No." Then he turned back to his work and resumed cutting. "Do it if you want to. I don't mind."

So it continued that way. Flowers, every time. Red roses. Norway didn't ask about it again. Maybe it was just that Germany's etiquette books suggested it, even if this wasn't a date, and it wasn't a romance. Or maybe it was that he had some guilt that needed to be assuaged.

Not that there was any reason for that. These visits were arranged, always carefully planned ahead of time. Norway had asked him to do this.

He breathes in the scent of the roses in the vase on his bedside table and decides that even if he doesn't know why he brings them, he doesn't need to ask about it.

* * *

The air is cold on his bare skin. Spring is still a long way off and no matter what he does, his home is still cold. His bedroom is drafty. But he'll be damned if he'll turn up the heat. He isn't about to do that.

He took off his clothes as soon as Germany stepped into the washroom. They rest on his desk chair, neatly folded. He readied himself after that, took care of things ahead of time. Eased himself enough that they could go about things without pausing to take care of it. Some nights, he wouldn't do that. Leave it to Germany instead. But not tonight. Now, shivering, Norway adjusts the roses in their vase and wonders if he should have waited a while longer.

Well, maybe not. Germany had said that he wouldn't be long, and he isn't. Norway hears the door open and doesn't bother to look up until he feels strong arms slide around his waist.

"Are you ready?"

Even now, there is an awkward note in Germany's voice. They have done this enough times for Norway to think that it won't ever go away.

"Yes." Norway turns his head to look at him. "Are you?"

The reply that Germany gives him isn't a spoken one. He dips his head and presses his lips against Norway's mouth. Slides his hands to Norway's waist. It surprises him, and Norway pauses for a moment before turning himself to face him properly and kissing back. 

He wants to ask him why. The question _Does this turn you on?_ slides through his mind for a moment. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't pull back to ask about it. Instead he slides his hands up and wraps his arms around Germany's shoulders.

The fabric against his skin is in the way of everything. Norway likes that. Likes the way Germany's hands slide lower, down to his hips, gripping and pulling him closer. He knows that Germany can feel everything, all of him, skin against his palms. But as for himself, there's the fabric between them, and it's good.

* * *

Eventually, Norway finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed. He slides the clip out of his hair and sets it on the bedside table. Then he looks up at Germany and raises an eyebrow. _Well?_

One hand dips to cup his chin and tilt it up, the gesture more gentle than might be expected. With the other hand, Germany carefully tucks behind his ear the strands that fell in his face in the clip's absence. Then, after hesitating for a moment, he slides his fingers through Norway's hair.

He closes his eyes. Bites back a comment. Part of him wants to tell him to get on with it, to stop screwing around, but it's a small part. The rest doesn't mind it. Over the years, he's caught on to the fact that Germany likes touching his hair, and he isn't about to stop him if that's what he wants. Not when he's doing him a favour like this.

So he waits. Lets him slide his fingers through it. Waits as he pauses, again, to tuck back a bit as it falls in his face. Waits until that touch drops away, and even then he doesn't open his eyes. He raises one hand, signalling to him, and waits.

Germany places the earplugs in his palm without a word, and Norway dutifully puts them in. 

He opens his eyes, looks up at Germany, and waits. Again, Germany cups his face. Again, he touches his hair. Then he turns to reach for the cloth blindfold that Norway set out on the bedside table earlier that evening. As Germany carefully unfolds it, he looks at Norway. His lips don't move, and he doesn't say anything, but the way he tilts his head slightly is a question, and Norway answers it with a nod.

Yes, he's ready.

In a moment, he sees nothing but the black fabric over his eyes.

* * *

Even when blinded and unable to hear, Norway isn't helpless. This is his home, and this is his bed, and he could easily get himself arranged on his own.

This is what he tells himself. But Germany has always insisted on guiding him. Maybe it is because he wants to ensure that there are no slip-ups, or maybe he's troubled by the thought of watching Norway grope blindly, moving slowly and cautiously to find his place on the bed. It can be an uneasy sight if that isn't what you're into.

Regardless, it is the same now as it always has been: he feels large, gentle hands rest lightly on his shoulders. Norway tenses for a second - no matter how many times they do this, the contact always feels too sudden - and finally he relaxes under the touch. After that, he lets Germany guide him, bending to his hands as his partner gently but firmly directs him where to go until finally he's comfortably on his back, sprawled at the centre of the bed.

Breathing in, out, in, Norway takes in what he's still aware of in his current state. Unable to see or hear, he's left with the other senses. Bed sheets against his bare skin. The way the mattress dips when Germany sets himself upon it. He is still dressed, and the fabric feels almost rough against Norway's thigh. For a moment, they barely touch; then Germany carefully takes him by the wrists and guides his hands toward the headboard.

As Germany ties him down Norway breathes in again, takes in the scent of him. Soap. And something deeper, warm and almost musky. Cologne, maybe. He wets his lips. The fabric straps that Germany uses to bind him to the headboard are old, they have seen many uses, they're soft against his wrists, and Germany's hands are firm but gentle.

He waits while Germany ties him, then waits again while he checks the straps. The brush of fingertips against his cheek is a question, asking if he's comfortable, and Norway nods. Then the contact disappears, but Germany doesn't move from his place. Norway can still feel him, his presence over him, the weight of his body on top of him and on the mattress. The warmth of his body is welcome against the chill of the room.

There is something he wants. For a second, Norway wonders if he should ask for it. He shouldn't, he isn't supposed to at times like this - though he was the one who put down that rule himself, and Germany only agreed to it. But it might be that right now Germany wants the same thing. Norway doesn't know why he hasn't moved, why he's still lingering above him as if he's watching him, or maybe as if he wants to say something even if Norway can't hear it. But maybe, Norway thinks, he wants the same thing and doesn't know how to ask it of him.

Norway licks his lips, then parts them, tilting his head back to arch upward as if offering. For a moment, there is nothing; then he feels movement, and then the gentle brush of contact as Germany's mouth meets his own.

He sighs into the kiss, even if he doesn't mean to, and relaxes beneath Germany's body. Even if he doesn't need this in order to go through with the rest, even if he doesn't need this in order to be comfortable, Norway can't deny that he likes it. As Germany's tongue slides over his lower lip Norway can't help but groan softly and open up for him.

He tells himself that he is offering himself, but he knows that it isn't true. You're indulging yourself with this, he thinks, chiding himself as their tongues brush and he moans against Germany's mouth. This kind of thing isn't the point of this whole thing, is it, that isn't why you're tied down like this, it isn't why he blindfolded you, it isn't why you can't hear a damn thing.

It's true. Norway knows it. But for as long as Germany kisses him, he ignores it. Ignores it and indulges himself and takes in the sensation of Germany's lips and tongue. If it were up to him, he'd let it linger. But now that he's tied down and blindfolded, it isn't up to him.

* * *

Germany eventually breaks the kiss, drawing away slowly. For a moment he lingers close enough that Norway can feel his breath on his neck. But then, after a second or two, that sensation is gone, and the warmth is gone, and the weight of Germany's body is gone as he moves away from him and off of the bed.

Taking his clothes off. That must be what he's doing. Norway draws in a slow breath and relaxes against the mattress and forces himself to wait. He thinks about what Germany might look like: undressing in the low light, the shadow, buttons slipping out of holes as he takes off his shirt.

As Norway breathes and waits he feels as if it's taking ages, and he wonders if Germany is doing this on purpose just to tease him. Just to make him wait. Just to deny him what he wants, since he was so overeager only a moment ago. It doesn't seem like something that Germany might do, really; not without Norway suggesting it to him at the beginning of the evening, before the start of everything, over coffee as they talk while night falls. Not without Norway giving him permission to do it.

But he likes the idea. He likes thinking about it. So Norway thinks about it, and imagines that Germany is making him wait. He thinks about Germany looking at him. Watching him. Indulging as he makes him wait, and taking in the sight of him: the black fabric blindfold across his eyes. Black fabric stark against his wrists as it holds him to the headboard. Norway knows how this makes him look; he's seen photographs.

The thought makes his breath catch and he can feel warmth rising across his cheeks. Licking his lower lip, he wonders if it shows, if Germany notices that even in the dim light. He thinks about Germany's eyes on him, trailing along his body in a path that his hands might normally take, and he bites his lip to keep from groaning.

He's aroused. He knows it. The kiss started it, the press of Germany's mouth against his own stirring him up. The tongue sliding into his mouth wasn't a hint, wasn't some subtle reference to what they would be doing; that isn't Germany's style. But it set Norway's mind going, and the thought of Germany watching him takes it further. Watching him, and waiting, and looking at him while he takes off his clothing. The thought leaves him flushed and hard and aching to be touched.

Norway knows that he could ask for it. Beg for it. There's no fabric covering his mouth, not this time. But he doesn't. Instead he offers himself, as he offered himself for the kiss, sighing and parting his thighs. He knows how he must look: tied there, knees bent, legs spread open wide, his cock hard and ready.

Finally, he feels the mattress shift as a weight moves onto it. Germany. Norway breathes and waits and can feel himself shivering. Part of it is the cold air. The rest is anticipation. A pair of strong hands slide palms along the inside of his thighs before gently pushing them further apart. And then the contact is gone, and he doesn't move.

The next thing he feels is the head of Germany's slick cock as it presses into him and at that, Norway can't help but gasp, the intake of air quick and sharp. It's true that he took care of himself before this, easing his own slippery fingers inside himself, and it's true that this is anything but the first time that they have spent time together like this, but that doesn't change the fact that Germany is big.

As he takes in the feeling of Germany sliding his cock inside of him Norway finds himself glad that he's going at in a restrained sort of way, doing it slowly.

Germany could do otherwise if he wanted. If he felt like it. He could grab him by the thighs, draw them open, thrust in hard without a second thought. He could. More than once, Norway has said it, telling him quietly in the low light while they talked it over. How to go about things. "You can be rough with me if you want, you know." And sometimes it's like that. Sometimes, that's how it is.

Not tonight.

As he rests back and takes it in Norway imagines the way Germany looks right now, pictures his eyes falling shut at the pleasure and relief of finally being inside of him. Though he can't hear him, he knows the sound he'd make, that familiar low, soft, barely-there groan. Then comes the movement - slow thrusting, steady and deep. Norway rolls his hips to meet him and holds back his gasps, tries as hard as he damn well can to keep from moaning. It's a little early to be so far gone just yet.

But early or not he's turned on, almost painfully so, and though he aches for some relief he knows he won't get it, not like that. With his hands tied, he can't do anything about it. Can't slide his hand between the two of them to touch himself. But that's fine by him. It's part of the point.

Above him, Norway can feel the heat from Germany's body as he thrusts into his ass. Presses him down, fucks him against the mattress. As he moves his legs up to wrap them around Germany's waist Norway feels him shudder. He can practically hear him moaning, even if the sound doesn't reach his ears. Germany isn't all that quiet in bed, not unless instructed to be so, and Norway's sure he isn't quiet now.

Norway isn't all that quiet himself either, not right now. Not with Germany fucking him hard and deep, and himself unable to see. Unable to hear. Unable to move as much as he might otherwise. He digs his fingernails into his own palms because he can't reach out and wrap his arms around Germany's broad shoulders, can't leave scratches down his back like he otherwise might do. All he had is the darkness behind his eyelids and the feeling of himself moaning and the sensation of Germany's cock inside of him.

Firm lips come crashing down against Norway's mouth and the gasp he makes as Germany kisses him is partially from arousal, partly from confusion.

He doesn't understand it, this. Why now? At a time like this. Why now, when Germany has him restrained and open and - maybe, almost - helpless under him, meant to be used for anything. Why kiss him now?

Other times, Norway might not be surprised. There have been nights, slower nights than this one, when he went into it with free hands and his eyes open, when they did it face to face. The times when Germany pressed him down with a hand more gentle than he'd normally expect him to be, and looked at him with a face full of badly-hidden appreciation, or the times when Norway insinuated himself into Germany's lap and slid his arms around his shoulders and tilted his head to the side as if daring him to do it. Daring him to press his lips to his mouth. At times like that, Norway understands something like this. Not now.

It's like the roses, Norway thinks as he whimpers against Germany's lips and takes in his tongue. Maybe it isn't something he needs to understand, not just yet. What he does understand is the press of Germany's mouth, the huff of hot breath against his cheek, the heat that rolls off of Germany's body above him, and the erratic thrust of Germany's hips. Not long. It won't be long now.

Norway sucks on Germany's tongue and wonders what will happen after the other nation is finished. Germany will help bring him over, maybe. Touch him. Or - if he's lucky - dip his head to take his cock in his mouth. Suck him off fast and thorough and efficient until he's left a trembling, incoherent mess. Or - Norway moans softly at the thought - nothing. Nothing. Like that time, a couple of times, when Germany took his fill of him and then left him. Freed him from the headboard, but didn't untie his wrists, and left him to himself, left him to shudder and moan and spit curses at him as he brought himself some relief by grinding against the mattress until he came, just as Norway had instructed before they started. He'd never came so hard in his life as when he was there, glaring at Germany across the room as he worked at untying his bonds with his teeth and jerked his hips against the sheets.

Shivering, Norway rocks up again, making a sound. It might be needy. It might not. Either way it makes Germany pound into him even harder. He knows that it won't end like that tonight. Not tonight. Germany never leaves him to take care of himself like that without talking it over, without it being part of the plan.

Too bad, really, Norway thinks. He wouldn't mind a surprise now and then.

* * *

It's overwhelming. He feels himself rolling, rocking, arching in time with Germany's movements. Above him, he feels him tense, and though he doesn't hear him, Norway can imagine the sound Germany makes, the words he whispers under his breath. He's heard it before, and while he never did understand the reasons why he would gasp out Norway's name, he never questioned it either.

But he imagines it now, as he feels Germany thrust into him and come inside of him, as he feels him moan against his mouth, as he makes sounds of his own and jerks up against him, urging him not to stop.

So close. He's so close. No need for Germany to touch him; he can feel that this will be enough if it keeps up. But it doesn't.

Norway feels himself curse as Germany pulls away from him. He doesn't give a damn how loud it is or isn't. As he arches upward, tilts his head, he tries to find Germany's lips again. Nothing. So close. While he doesn't beg - won't - the moan should be enough, the way he gasps and strains against his bindings as if asking leave to touch himself.

Finally, after what feels like ages, but must be only seconds, he feels Germany kiss him. Feels the mattress shift as Germany moves to rest by his side. Then, a large hand coils around Norway's cock, wrapping tightly around it to finish him off, and any sounds Norway might have made become nothing, muffled by the mouth covering his own and softened by the gasps he makes now. Close. Closer. As he arches his back, thrusts against Germany's palm, Norway closes his eyes behind the blindfold and forgets about everything else.

When he comes, he doesn't gasp any names, but the low moan that passes Norway's lips is satisfied enough. It's enough.

* * *

After everything, Germany's gestures are just as attentive as they were when they started. It might be tempting to rest a while, curl up beside Norway and catch his breath - Norway's sure of it - but he doesn't. With care and practiced efficiency, Germany unties the bindings. There is a pause after that, and Norway waits, idly flexing his wrists, staying patient because he knows the reason for it. He doesn't need to look to know that Germany's folding the fabric restraints.

For a moment, nothing else happens. Then he turns his head toward the other side of the bed, where Germany's weight rests, and waits. Not that he can be sure that he's looking in the right direction. He can't see him at all. But the signal is clear enough; it's the one they agreed on. So Norway waits, and eventually he feels the mattress shift again. Then: two hands on his shoulders, broad palms touching lightly before they move up to untie the blindfold for him.

Norway says nothing. When the blindfold is finally gone, he blinks. Even the low lighting is too much, at least for the moment. Then he looks toward Germany, who looks back at him with a satisfied but slightly embarrassed expression before looking away to fold the fabric neatly and place it in the bedside drawer where it belongs.

Embarrassed. Why? Norway takes out his earplugs without a word. Glances at him again. Decides it's best not to ask. None of his business. But as far as he's concerned, they've done this together enough times that there isn't any reason to be embarrassed by any of it. Not really.

While Germany showers, Norway changes the sheets. Puts everything in order. Though Germany has never said anything about it, Norway guessed long ago that it was how he preferred it - and as for himself, it's much the same. No need to go leaving it for later. More comfortable to fall asleep on clean sheets, anyhow.

And doing it sets his mind back in order. As Norway boxes in the corners of the sheets, he admits to himself - and not for the first time - that it's not something he can ignore. Better to set his head back to normalcy rather than lingering on it; better to give his hands something to do rather than let himself steep in the afterglow too much. There's a limit to how much he'll indulge himself.

Glancing toward the bathroom door, Norway lets his hands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the running water. Is Germany the same? He nibbles at his lower lip as he thinks about it. No matter what they'd been getting up to, at the end of it Germany always separates without complaint as soon as Norway gives him word to do it. He steps aside, leaves Norway time to put himself together. But is that what he wants?

As Norway looks away, his gaze falls on the vase of roses at the bedside table. He stares at it, then looks away, telling himself that it's nothing. It's just a gesture. Just something that Germany read in an etiquette book and felt was appropriate. That's all.

* * *

Standing in his kitchen, looking out of the dark window at the clear black sky, Norway breathes in the scent of brewing coffee. Earlier, the clock struck three in the morning, but now the house is silent aside from the sound of the wind outside and the bubbling of coffee into the percolator and the gentle creaking as the building settles.

The hardwood floor is cold on his feet. He should have put on slippers, but he isn't about to go back to his room for them. When he left, sliding out of bed to slip quietly out of the bedroom and down the hall, Germany was fast asleep, his breaths deep and steady and even. It'd be a shame to wake him.

In his bathrobe and bare feet, Norway stands and waits and listens and thinks about earlier in the night, after they cleaned themselves up, the two of them. Before he turned off the bedside lamp, he'd offered Germany a soft "good night". Germany's reply was the same, nothing more than a "good night" that was as gentle as the hand he used to brush Norway's hair out of his eyes. When Norway tilted his head to kiss at his palm, he glanced toward Germany's face. The look of surprise was what he expected, but there was something else that he couldn't quite place.

Now, he wonders if he should have said something else. Should have done something else. Kissed him goodnight, maybe. On the lips, or the cheek. Touched his face, or pulled him close to nuzzle against the crook of his neck.

Don't be ridiculous, Norway tells himself as the coffee perks and he reaches for a mug. This isn't like that at all. He's only here because you ask him to come here and fuck you. You have things you want from him, and he's the same way, and that's the end of it.

Isn't it?

Standing there in the silence, with an empty mug in his hand, Norway thinks about it. As his lips tighten into a frown and he decides that it's a thought best left for another night, if ever, he hears a sound: The creak of a door being nudged open, and footsteps on the hardwood floor.

Norway doesn't say a thing. Not until the footsteps make their way into the kitchen. Even then, he doesn't turn around; just sets his mug down and reaches into the cupboard for a second one, just in case. "Did I wake you, then," he asks, lifting his head not to glance over his shoulder at his visitor, but to look at his image in the silvery reflection on the window. Germany. Germany, standing tall and broad in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, his expression hard to read but, if Norway can guess at it, curious. He'd thrown on his trousers from the previous day, but nothing else. Must be cold, but Norway can't deny that it's a good look for him.

"No," Germany says. Late at night as it is, having been asleep, he looks different than he usually would. His hair, loose and free of styling products, gently frames his face. Gets in his eyes, sticking up at bit where he slept on it. To Norway, it makes him look younger than usual, perhaps. Softer. "You weren't in bed. I wanted to make sure that you were all right."

"So, I did wake you."

"You did not! I-"

"Belay that. It's fine. I'm okay." A smile tugs at the corner of Norway's mouth. The concern is entirely unwarranted, and if it were coming from someone else, Norway might have something to say about that. But coming from Germany, in light of what they did earlier that evening - even if he was gentler than he might have been - it's fine, Norway thinks. It's just fine. He isn't about to lecture him for wanting to take care. "Come here, will you."

In a few steps, Germany strides across the room. Still, Norway doesn't turn to look at him, and there's a moment of hesitation before he feels the contact. As long arms slide around his waist, Norway allows his eyes to fall shut, taking in the warmth of Germany's body, the press of his bare chest against Norway's back as he's drawn firmly into his hold. It's good. Nice. "Do you want a coffee?" he murmurs. "I made enough for two."

"You won't be able to get back to sleep if you drink it."

"I keep odd hours anyway, y'know. Don't matter." Resting against him, Norway smiled again, more broadly this time. Germany's reply almost sounds like a warning. As if you have leave to go being concerned about me, Norway thinks. But there's something nice about it, somehow. "... I'd like it if you stayed up a while, at least. Might be nice, havin' some company."

There is a long pause, as if Germany isn't sure how to answer. Then Norway feels a soft press against his temple. A kiss. He doesn't say anything, just takes it in, allows himself to enjoy it. After waiting for a moment, he gets the answer that he wants: a soft sigh, and a low murmur of, "All right."

Carefully, Norway sets the mug on the counter, then slowly turns around. When he lifts his hands to gently cup Germany's face, the other nation's eyes widen in surprise, and it's all Norway can do to hold back a teasing remark about it. Wasn't what you expected of me, is it, Norway thinks. Not outside the bedroom.

It doesn't matter, Norway decides. In the dark and the deep night, with the cold kitchen air and the scent of coffee around them, it doesn't matter that this isn't the reason that they're together tonight, that it isn't the reason that Norway asked him to come to his home. Something else brought Germany here, and the reasons for it show in the roses on Norway's bedroom table, and in the way Germany woke to join him, and in the way that he keeps coming back every time Norway asks it of him.

As strong arms tighten around his waist, Norway tilts his head upward, grazing a kiss against Germany's cheek. The content sigh he hears is more satisfying to him than it should be.

It's fine if this becomes more than he meant it to be, he decides.

He doesn't mind.

It's nice.


End file.
